


you're not a bother (to be cared for)

by privateerwrites



Series: These lines aren't wrinkles [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aramis has asthma, Cuddles, Gen, I love how these just keep getting longer, Jewish Porthos, Pre-Relationship, Sick Athos, Sickfic, a little angsty because Athos but, ft debbie friedman music mentions, one day I'll learn to write more than 2k in one shot, only teen for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28539660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/privateerwrites/pseuds/privateerwrites
Summary: Athos gets sick and is taken care of by Aramis and Porthos because they love him and are worried. Ft. Athos being mildly dramatic, Aramis being worried, and Athos not knowing how to thank people[these lines aren't wrinkles verse; takes place long before the other parts of this series, and you don't need to read any other parts for this to make sense]
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon
Series: These lines aren't wrinkles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084148
Comments: 22
Kudos: 33





	you're not a bother (to be cared for)

Athos is sick. Athos has been sick before, and he will be sick again. The only difference right now between this and all of the times he has been sick before is that there are people now who worry about him and aren't paid to do so. The only difference is, he lives with those people, full time, in an apartment that, while large, is not particularly conducive to hiding one's general state of being. 

They've been living together for a little over a year in an apartment that gets paid for in an unequal but effective and fair fashion. As far as apartments go, it is large, but large does not account for three grown men who are highly accustomed to essentially living on top of each other. There are many nights where they fall asleep on top of each other on the couch, simply because it is simplest. When one of them has gone to change their bedding but hasn't quite managed to actually complete the action of re-making his bed, more often than not the solution is to simply share a bed with one of the other two. 

Given this, Athos knows that he can't just disappear off into his room for three or four or five days, stocked with a heating plate and a large pot of soup. That's what he'd learned to do, after his parents had died. The nanny had needed to watch the children, and Athos had needed to stay out of the way. 

The first day that he is sick, it's easy to ignore the pounding in his temples and the sensation of his breath catching in his chest when he inhales. He sniffles a little here, coughs a smidge there. When Aramis asks, he can pass it off as allergies. That's not true the second day. 

The second day, Athos wakes up and his whole being feels like it is on fire. His head is pounding so badly that it hurts to think. He's sneezing and coughing, and his body hurts everywhere. His sheets are damp, and he realizes that he is drenched in sweat. There is something slamming on his door repeatedly, and Athos belatedly realizes that it's knocking. He groans and rolls out of bed, hitting the floor. He pulls himself up using the bed (and fuck, even standing hurts) and slowly drags himself to the door of his room. He turns the knob and opens it a crack. 

"What do you want," he rasps out. 

"It's time for breakfast, Athos," Aramis says. He leans closer. "You don't look so good." 

"Thanks," Athos mutters, and slams the door shut. He yanks a shirt over his head and gets a pair of sweatpants on. He's exhausted, even just from that, and he considers for a moment that it might be better to go back to sleep. 

"Hey," he hears from the door. "Hey, can you open up for us, Athos? Please?" Athos manages to stumble to the door and pull it open. 

"Hi," Porthos gently whispers down at him. He reaches out a hand, and before Athos can even protest- can even think to protest- he's resting the back of his hand on Athos' forehead. "You're burnin' up. Let's get you to bed, yeah?" Athos shakes his head. He doesn't feel that bad, and he doesn't want to be a burden, and he doesn't want to worry Aramis. He must say all this out loud, because Porthos is holding him a second later, the door now hanging wide open. 

"Remember what we told you, yeah? You're stuck with us whether you like it or not. You are not a bother, or a burden," Porthos is telling him. Athos realizes that he's shaking, and his cheeks are wet and- oh. He's crying. After a while, Porthos pulls away and gently picks him up and carries him out of his room. 

"Hmph. 'Ere you are, nice and clean bed." Porthos leans down and presses his lips carefully to Athos' forehead. "More accurate than my hand," he mutters at Athos' disgruntled glare. " 'Mis is makin' you some soup, alright? Until then, just lay here." 

Athos lies back without complaint, too tired to put up a fight. Porthos goes to leave, turning towards the door. 

"Stay," Athos says, and it's so quiet that Porthos almost misses it. "Please." Porthos nods and turns around to face Athos. He smiles softly. 

"Okay. But jus' for a little bit, yeah?" Athos nods, grateful for any sort of company he can be promised for any length of time. Porthos pulls a chair up to the side of his bed. Athos smiles, and closes his eyes. 

An indeterminate amount of time later, Athos wakes up to a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Aramis is leaning over him, a look of concern floating on his face. 

"Hey," Aramis says softly. "Good morning." 

"What time is it," Athos croaks out. 

"Eleven. You were asleep for about four hours," Porthos informs him. "Aramis made soup. Eat." 

A bowl is lifted to Athos' lips and he sips it carefully. It burns a little against his sore throat, but he's grateful for the food- it's warm and tastes infinitely better than the bitter smell of illness rolling around in the back of his throat. 

"There you go," Aramis tells him. "Just like that." 

Athos drinks the whole bowl slowly, and then lies back down against the pillows. He's propped up now, leaning against a stack that seems to be engineered for leverage and comfort all at once, and he appreciates it. They're fluffy and soft and the blankets are warm, and he snuggles in deeper under the covers. 

Porthos is sitting on the bed next to him when he wakes up next, holding a pill and some water. 

"For your fever," he states simply. Athos reaches out and downs the pill, and then takes a sip of the water. Porthos has concern written all over his face, an expression that Athos, for one, is not a fan of. Porthos presses a cold washcloth to Athos' head, and Athos shivers a little. It feels good but the sensation is sudden and more than a little shocking. He leans up into it after a second, and Porthos presses it down onto his forehead a little more. 

The next time Athos wakes up, late afternoon sun is streaming in through the window. Porthos is standing and facing away from the bed and towards the door, his shoulders and head curved inwards in deep focus. Aramis is sitting in the chair next to the bed, holding his rosary, his head bent in prayer. Porthos is singing something softly, and the words carry over to Athos. 

"-m'kor habracha, laavoteinu. Bless those in need of healing with _r'fuah sh'leima_ , the renewal of body, the renewal of spirit, and let us say, amen." 

_He's praying_ , Athos realizes. _He's praying._

Aramis is praying too, but that isn't unusual. Aramis prays when he thinks he might burn a pie, when he doesn't know what to do, when he wants a little old lady he sees on the street to have a particularly good day. Aramis prays for _everything_. 

Porthos doesn't really pray out loud much- he's religious, and his faith in his God is as solid as Aramis', but formal, structured prayer isn't something he does much. _If God is everywhere_ , he's told Athos, _then God knows when I need Him._

He's wearing a white sweater, and to Athos' fever-mussed brain, he looks like an angel. Aramis notices that Athos has woken up before Porthos, and looks at Athos with an unreadable expression. 

"How are you feeling," he asks, and there is a raw quality to his voice that hadn't been there earlier. 

"Great," Athos deadpans. He feels better than before, that’s for sure, but he does not feel anywhere near okay or good.

Porthos, hearing their voices, turns back towards Athos and Aramis. He walks over and carefully sits down next to Athos on the bed, just as he had earlier. He reaches out and places his hand on the back of Athos' head. The solid weight of his hand is comforting to Athos, and he lets his head loll back into Porthos' palm. 

Porthos pulls Athos' head towards his, and gently leans his lips onto Athos' forehead. He pulls back after a moment and smiles, nodding to Aramis over Athos' head. He mutters something under his breath with his chin resting on top of Athos' hair. 

"He's cooled down," Porthos says, and Athos can hear the satisfaction in his voice. 

"Thank _God_ ," Aramis intones. Athos can feel more than see Porthos nodding. Suddenly, he's being pulled against Porthos' chest and there are hands stroking his hair. He relaxes back into the hold, discovering that if he settles in a very particular way, he can stop working quite so hard to hold up his head.

They sit like that for what feels like an eternity but is probably only about fifteen minutes. Athos moves to swing away from Porthos and rest back on the bed, figuring that Porthos probably doesn’t want to be trapped under him forever.

"Shhh," murmurs Porthos. "Sleep on me, give that bed a rest for a bit, eh? We c'n go sit on the couch, and 'Mis will make you more soup for dinner." 

They do just that, carefully maneuvering Athos onto the couch with an army of pillows and Porthos at his back. He sleeps much better against Porthos, probably because of the warmth and gentleness that Porthos exudes. 

Eating, Athos learns later, is also easier when he's propped against Porthos. He can lean back and not sink into anything, and he feels safe and comfortable. 

The next morning, Athos' fever is gone, although his head is still pounding and his nose is still stuffed. Porthos is asleep behind him on the couch, but Aramis is awake, watching the two of them sleep. 

"Good morning," he says with a smile. Athos notices the crucifix clutched in his palm. Aramis makes his way over to the couch, tucking the crucifix into the pocket of the deep blue sweatpants he’s wearing. He presses the back of his hand against Athos' head, and then produces a thermometer from the pocket that isn’t holding the crucifix and places it in Athos' mouth. He pulls it out when it beeps and smiles again. 

"Is your nose still stuffed?" Athos nods. 

"Alright, then. C'mere." He lifts the blankets off of Athos and takes his hand, wrapping his arm around Athos' side once Athos gets up. 

"I'm going to let go now, but tell me if you feel faint or anything," he says gently. Athos nods again, and takes a couple wobbling steps forward. Aramis leads him gently to the bathroom with his hand on the small of Athos’ back, where he turns on the hot water tap in the sink, letting Athos lean against the sink.

Athos glances up into the mirror, and upon seeing his reflection quickly looks back down. He understands the concern that Porthos and Aramis had for him earlier. His skin is tinged gray, and his eyes are sunken in. His lips are chapped and read, and his nose is rather shiny and red. He looks, as his mother would say, like death warmed over.

Aramis guides Athos through a sinus rinse, holding his hair back, handing him tissues, and softly offering reassurance from his side. They walk back to the couch to find that Porthos has woken up and is making breakfast. 

"G'morning," he calls from the kitchen. 

"Hello," Athos answers and waves a little. He sits down on the couch heavily and curls back up under the blankets, tucking them around himself and leaning back into the pillow nest.

By midday, he is feeling much better. His head no longer hurts every time he moves his eyes, and he doesn’t feel as though he has just run a marathon. 

At dinnertime, he makes it all the way to the table and eats with Aramis and Porthos, though he has soup instead of the mac 'n' cheese they're eating. 

"Thank you," he mumbles. 

"Of course," Aramis says, catching on to what he means. 

"Athos," Porthos sighs out, and Athos knows that the sigh means that Porthos thinks he is a little dumb for thanking them, but also that he cares enough not to call Athos an idiot right after he's been miserable for two days. 

They finish dinner, and when Athos returns to his room to sleep that night (the bed, he notices, has fresh sheets on it that were not there before and look suspiciously like a set Aramis bought for Porthos), he passes out to the memory of being cared for and wanted, and he sleeps better than he has in a long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> The prayer Porthos sings is Debbie Friedman's Mi Shebeirach, which is _gorgeous_ and if you've never heard it, you should go listen to it, because it's amazing.
> 
> Comments and kudos are really appreciated!
> 
> If Tumblr is your thing, you can also find me over there are privateerstudies!!


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